Till Death Do You Part

The last thing you remember is the changing room you had been in a few hours after the wedding. Your wedding, for that matter. The happiest day of your life, you promised yourself. Finally walking down that aisle with a man who would love you till death tore you apart.

The wedding was supposed to be one thing you remembered for the rest of your life. A grand accomplishment after years of failed relationships, that childish dream you harbored in your soul finally taking flight.

All that was left was the reception, the torturous hours of social mingling, and then freedom. It would be easy. Except it wasn't, was it?

For you, it seemed to be mere moments ago that you were lying down on one of those long, backless sofas in one of the church's many backrooms. The noise of the guests in the reception hall attached to the church was louder than you expected.

You started to feel lightheaded, don't you recall? A bit nauseous?

No? You don't remember?

How...peculiar.

I understand. Truly. You're more concerned about the situation at hand, aren't you? The floor underneath you isn't the polished, wooden planks you were transfixed by earlier. The church's floors are made of real wood. You won't find that vinyl shit people pass off as wooden floors these days in that particular building.

No, to your surprise, what's beneath you is carpet. It's thick and worn and far more supportive than the floor of that church you had been in. More welcoming, someone might say.

If not for the fact your arm is twisted behind your back, bent at an awkward angle that is likely to be more painful than uncomfortable, you might have let yourself lay there and drift off to sleep. You've always been a lady that liked to sleep in, someone who could drift off at the softest of whispers.

It might be the ache in your shoulder that roused you. It might be the way your stomach seems to curl into itself, each twisting motion prying a pained groan from your lips.

They're coral pink. Your lips, I mean. There's a sheen to them, a sort of wet shine that makes me think you might have run your tongue over your lips at some point if you hadn't been unconscious.

It's a balm of some kind, one that coats the liquid stain you had applied earlier. It's a brand of lipstick that reminds you of your mother, a way to feel close to her after all these years. The color you choose, it's more natural than the red hues many brides wear at their wedding.

Pink suits you. It's innocent, yet seductive in its own way. The pink of your lips is a quiet flirtation, a subtle request to look (but not too closely).

You're waking up, however. Your brow, waxed only for special occasions, furrows. The fingers of the hand suspended behind you twitch, and the small, simple action is enough to pull a pained sound from your mouth.

It's difficult to not get entranced by the blushing, pink hue of artificially colored skin. You roll slowly, twisting until you're on your back and your arm is now in front of you. Your attention is wavering, unfocused.

Not yet fully aware of what's happened, are you?

You stare at the hand held aloft, at the metal wrapped around your wrist and tied to the railing of a railcar chair. The lace wrapped around your wrist is a startling shade of white. It's unnaturally bright when laid over the purple and black skin blooming beneath the delicate ribbons.

The silver band around your ring finger, I'll admit that it was a bit of a surprise. It had caught my eye, too, after you were locked into place. I should have expected it, given where you had been. Given what you're wearing. Given who you were dancing with.

I was tempted to pull that ring off your hand while you were sleeping. The color compliments your complexion, far better than any gold band would, and it seemed a crime to remove it.

Dare I say it?

I like that thin silver band on your finger. Not the man who put it there, heavens no, but the ring itself is a pretty little thing. Soft and gentle, a piece of jewelry that isn't meant to draw anyone's attention.

I see how you eye it, that ring, before your attention shifts to your wrist and the cuff slapped around it. As the haze of sleep falls away, your eyes widen as you stare helplessly at your shackles.

Your eyes, they're lined in thick, black lines of kohl. A homemade brand from a friend, isn't that right? Specially made just for today, the only day you'd even think to put makeup on your skin.

You're sitting upright in seconds, your right hand latching onto the cufflink as your breath comes in quick, panicked gasps. Have you noticed, yet?

The way the air around you vibrates, the low-key drone riding the edge of your hearing? The soft, barely-there vibrations running through the floor you're sitting on, do they make your skin prickle with awareness?

It's odd, really. You're a pale, angelic vision in the darkness of a train you're finally starting to take note of. The carpet beneath you, you might think it's black. In actuality, it's a red so dark it might as well be black.

This train, it's the perfect backdrop for the delicate layers of your wedding gown. You're dressed in a gown that's more silver than white. Adorned in gossamer silk threaded in a thousand diamond tears designed to mask your pain behind untouchable beauty, you simply exist.

The seats, however, are red. A deep, blood-like crimson that's soft to the touch. I see how your fingers dig into the seat's soft covers. The material slides between your fingers like it's made of water instead of cloth.

If you weren't so frightened, you would be entranced.

If you were someplace else, you would be still and unmoving. You would run your fingers over the fabric the same way other people lovingly stroke their pets when curled up at home in their favorite chair. For hours, you would card your fingers through that fabric as your mind rests and settles.

It isn't a sense of calm that has you. Fear, that's what you're feeling. It's almost amusing how you think that jerking your wrist against the metal links holding you in place will somehow free you.

Soon, you're twisting around. Your gaze is sweeping over the dark carriage, pale legs tucked to the side as you take in your surroundings. The carriage is empty. The seats are all the same blood-red hue that is close to the color of your hair, the tresses falling around you in waves as your eyes brighten with unshed tears.

Wait, tears?

You're about to cry? No, you're not supposed to cry.

I picked the most welcoming carriage for you, don't you see?

I locked you in here, in this place, so you'd be safe. The rest of the train isn't as safe, isn't as welcoming, my dear. You won't find any other place that is as warm as this particular part of the train.

It's always been my favorite. Dark, tucked away. A perfect place to rest, to hide, to die. Wet trails run down your face, your shoulders trembling as the eyeliner leaves black streaks under your eyes.

You're moving, movements stiff from lying on the ground for hours on end. In a moment like this, you don't want to be on the ground. You need to stand. Have to stand, to assess what's happening around you.

You're lucky your hand is cuffed to the end of a line of seats and not in the middle. Getting up would have been harder. And then you speak, "Hello? Is someone there?"

A visceral shudder runs through me at the sound of your voice. I've always liked your voice. It's always reminded me of music. You're muttering to yourself as you tug at your wrist, face pinching at what is obviously a stab of pain shooting up your arm. Your fear mounts as you yell out in the empty train car, "Can anyone hear me!?"

No, my dear. No one hears you. No one alive, at any rate.

It takes a moment before you start to focus on your surroundings. As you stand there in the aisle of the train, captured hand curling into a fist, your eyes narrow. A few tears escape, all of which are brushed away by the heel of the hand that's still free.

You're finally slowing down. Thinking. Panic is useless in situations like this, and often detrimental to your health. It's important to assess what's happening, to stay calm and collected.

How many nights had you stayed up till the sky was light with the first touch of dawn? Always tapping away at the keys of your keyboard, eyes glued to the screen as you researched different things that came to your mind. Like what to do in the event you're kidnapped.

You never thought you'd have to put that little tidbit of information to use, did you? Really, no one can blame you. Writers are often looking up the oddest bits of information, and you, my dear, are no exception.

It doesn't take long for you to realize the train is moving. The hum of the machine around you gives that away, but so does a quick glimpse out of the window to your left. Granted, you can't tell much by the churning smoke and fog on the other side of the window.

But it does tell you the train is moving.

And you're trapped inside.

With me.

"How?" Your hand runs over the layers of your dress as the other curls around the pole it's shackled to. The carpet is soft under the soles of your bare feet, your toes curling into the thick, wool-based pile. "Where am I?"

You're locked into place, the cuffs secure and unnaturally cold against your skin as you inspect them. Maybe there's a way to unlock them? To pop open the lock so you can escape.

Or, at the least, find a way to signal for help.

It's interesting to watch you work. To observe how you manage to calm yourself after the initial shock hits, to see how you start breaking things apart mentally as you figure out your next plan of action.

I'd stay if the Conductor wasn't on his way. I can't let him find you, not when things are nearing a conclusion that's, finally, acceptable. The world has tried to hurt you too many times, my dear, and I can't let you go again.

I won't. Not when you can't see what is obviously in front of you. Decades of quiet surveillance have ensured I look after you always. I can't fail, not now. Not ever again. The living will take you away, pry you from my dead, blackened fingers and the dark shadows of my heart.

Even as you fade from view, I can still feel you.

The quiet buzz of your mind whirling away, deft fingers slipping beneath the cuff to test the strength. I don't doubt that you'll figure out how to remove your shackle, but it won't matter in the end.

Ahead of me, the Conductor's fragmented soul comes into view. Sharp, jagged edges that hum and crackle. The Black Car falls away behind me as I move into the next, away from the caboose. The Conductor rarely goes there. No one is ever there, after all. It is, after all, my carriage.

He knows I don't share.

He knows that as well as he knows he can never pry my grasp from this realm. He cannot send my tainted soul into the next life, though not for a lack of trying. Oh, he's tried. Many, many times.

The Conductor, he's approaching. A flickering, hazy thing that is half-here and half-not. Difficult to see when the world around him seems to bend and reflect off of his very existence. And, oh, is he suspicious.

"Dark Spirit," the Conductor approaches slowly. His voice is like thunder, deep and rumbling and impossible to see. But it can be felt, a deep vibration that echoes and resonates throughout the train. He stops outside of arm's reach, unaware that I am the only thing standing between him and you. I sense his attention focusing on me, razor-sharp and honed in on me as he says, "It is unlike you to accept your Token, let alone willingly go let the Train carry you through the Valley."

Suspicious, as I said. I accept my Token. Why wouldn't I? Willing or not, I think it is long overdue that I make the journey, but not alone.

"Many a soul travels this path with you, Spirit," the Conductor stands just ahead, the cabins on either side of him seemingly curling into him. The edges are warped, twisting upon themselves as if quietly asking to become one with his being. The low-key ringing building in the backdrop, however, isn't what I wanted to hear. "Never have you accepted your Token, not even knowing the journey is one shared amongst many of the dead. Yet you think you were alone? But not know?"

Ah, yes. That. Tricky business the Conductor oversees. He reads souls.

Watches as they bleed.

There is a shift in the air, the spaces around the Conductor darkening, blackening, as he swells in place. Extending, shoulders pressing into the ceiling as claw-tipped fingers drag across the ground.

"You think to bring the living aboard without a Token?"

That was a slight...miscalculation...on my part. Trivial, in the end.

The echoing, groaning cry of the train disagrees. The sharp, cutting edge of fear from you, my Bride, agrees with its silent judgment. Perhaps cuffing you in place wasn't the smartest of ideas, but I wanted to ensure you didn't escape. Except I had forgotten one small thing.

Whatever the Train knows, as does the Conductor.

Two souls forever linked.

The moment you pry your wrist free, my dear, I feel it. The dark power inside the metal breaks, returning to me as the Conductor's physical manifestation spikes seconds before he screams. A bone-breaking shriek that has the Train's exoskeleton pulling inward, metal groaning as the windows rattle in all the areas they were placed.

Windows that start to open. Windows that let in fog and smoke and mist.

The caboose opens from behind me, your light pushing the dark back. When you look at the Conductor, you see what I don't. You see what he wants you to see. What he shows you, however, I do not know other than the fact that it ensnares you in shock for but a moment.

Shock is followed by a flicker of momentary hope that crumbles as horror and fear take its place. Fear of something familiar twisting into something monstrous and inhuman, a thing of nightmares instead of hopeful, childish dreams. Happiness that caves under the biting touch of anger, pain, and a cutting sense of cold betrayal.

There isn't a moment to lose, is there? Not when we were both tricked, you by my very nature and by the Conductor's snarling rage. The floor is covered in a thick, rolling veil of grey and black and white. Mixing eternally as the Train plunges closer and closer to the end of mortal life.

You see, my dear, I have a Token. A ticket, so to speak, but you do not. You have no idea how you got onto this train, or why a Token is so important for this ride. But that matters little, not with me by your side.

An oath had been sworn, my dear. One you have forgotten, but one that binds me ever-closer to your light. An ancient story from decades past.

You named me both demon and knight. Running for your life between the realms of death and life, you beckoned me to your side by the virtue of your purity. Your pain and tears christened me as your light scoured through my spirit and set it aflame. Through that agony you forced upon me, pain a soul like mine had never experienced before, I discovered one vital, all-encompassing truth.

It would be your love that would save my blackened, tarnished soul.

Here, in this place, only this is certain. We are bonded, a connection so strong that not even death can pry us apart. You might have said your wedding vows to the Conductor, but it was me you had sealed yourself to when you were but a girl begging me to save your broken, human heart.

And one thing is certain. I am a monster with a heart.

Author's Note

Thank you for taking a moment to stop and read this story. If you enjoyed what you've read, leave a heart and comment below. If you like, you could also leave a tip. Any support you give is greatly appreciated.

If you liked the narration style of this story, you might also like The Cabin in the Woods, which is a short horror piece I wrote at the start of July.